A blustery wind kept unsnapping my rain poncho, and pushing the hood down off my head, while whirling my hair up like an eggbeater. The toast and egg that I’d had for breakfast were doing a bouncy two-step in my stomach. I kept asking myself - am I having fun yet?

I was on a 64-foot fishing boat pulling away from the east coast. Like Herman Melville’s characters in “Moby Dick”, I and the other fifty passengers were looking for whales. But instead of harpoons, we were armed with binoculars and cameras, and instead of the sails of the “Pequod” billowing above us, we had two 900 hp engines vibrating under us. Just for today, we could pretend we were Captain Ahab and his crew.

I had succumbed to the fascination that humans have for whales. Perhaps it’s their size - larger than any other creature that ever lived. Perhaps it’s their environment - a vast watery place of mystery that contains strange forms of life, from delicate jellyfish and tiny seahorses to giant squids, rapacious great white sharks, and coelacanths - the latter a fish that until recently was thought to be extinct for eighty million years.

The waves grew higher, and spray began to drift over the rail. One huge wave zeroed in on me and soaked my jeans leg. Everyone was staggering back and forth on the deck, like sailors that had downed a whole week’s ration of rum all at once. It became impossible to move around the ship without holding onto the rail. I moved inside to escape  the northeaster that was beginning to blow with the force of a hurricane. An assortment of tote bags, coolers, and hampers were stowed along the bench on each side of the ship, and consequently there was nothing to hold on to. I stumbled over the gear as the ship did its imitation of a roller coaster, and landed in the lap of an older gentleman. I apologized profusely; he smiled blissfully, as though I'd planted a kiss on his forehead. "It's okay," he said. "You've just made my day.".

We had been told that if we feel queasy, we should focus on the horizon, to give our eyes a reference point. But inside the sliding doors, the horizon was out of sight. The egg and toast in my stomach were now doing an energetic jitterbug. It was time to go lean over the rail, as I had seen others do already. I rushed out through the sliding doors. Oops! Wrong side of the ship. The wind rejected my efforts to feed the fish; it caught my breakfast and splattered it all over my poncho. Luckily I had tissues to wipe it off.

I dug out a Dramamine, to follow the one I had taken at breakfast, but decided it was too much effort to find a drink to wash it down with. I wished I had my husband’s talent for taking pills without water. Using a handful of raisins from my tote bag as a chaser, I finally got it down. But despite the pill, over the next couple of hours, I had to make additional trips to the rail  - on the other side, where the wind effect was not so unfavorable.

Soon a shout went up. Someone had spotted a whale. Everyone eagerly ran to look, cameras poised to record the scene. A whale fluke emerged above the waves. Then more flukes came into sight, the closest only about twenty feet away.

The excitement was catching. I stared at the huge shapes in the water, duly impressed. I found myself shivering, not because of the drama of the scene, but from the cold that was penetrating the four layers of clothing under my poncho. Who knew it could be this frigid here in June?

Another shout arose - “black-capped petrel!” This caused much commotion. It seemed the black-capped petrel is a bird native to the island of Trinidad, and had never been seen at this latitude before.

I consider myself a moderately knowledgeable birder, but I realized I was hopelessly outclassed here. My shipmates were evidently the kind that would drop everything and drive five hundred miles for the possibility of seeing a reported double-breasted outfield flycatcher or lily-livered sneakling. As hard as I tried to follow pointing fingers to see the black-capped petrel skimming low over the water, all that met my eye was ever-moving waves.

I gave up. I didn’t really care at that point. I huddled miserably on the bench, expecting hypothermia to set in. Perhaps I’d be a solid block of ice by the time we got back, and they’d have to chip me away from the bench. I wondered what I should do first when we arrived back on shore - warm up in a hot tub or eat something before I faint, for surely by that time I’d be ready for a ten-course meal. On that note, I dozed off.

I awoke later, as the ship was heading back. The sea was calmer now, and the sun made a momentary rainbow appear each time a wave hit the prow and broke up into spray. I could almost enjoy the scene. I caught snatches of conversation around me of individuals practicing bird one-up-manship: “I’ll tell you where you can go to see a caracara.” “That’s where I photographed the buff-breasted sandpiper.” “At Glacier National Park, there’s a particular waterfall where a pair of dippers nests each year.” Other bird species were mentioned that I had never heard of. Are there really birds named babblers and tits?

I decided a whale-watching trip is something everyone should do once, like a Muslim’s mandatory pilgrimage to Mecca. After all, some whale species might be extinct in the not-so-distant future. But I wouldn’t do it again myself. Not unless whales decide to congregate in calm tropical seas.

I wonder how Captain Ahab and his shipmates managed to survive their hunts.